Lessons
by Sliven
Summary: A story of greed, lust, and loneliness. A story of one certain Counsellor and what is remembered about him. And, ultimately, a story of utter corruption. COMPLETE
1. The naming of the Worm

Part I

The naming of the Worm

In an age far ago, in a land far away, a man sold his soul for a cause he thought worthwhile. His fate is told in no more than a few sentences. His motives are no longer rightly recalled. All that remains is his name, and hardly even that. Wormtongue. The snake. Saruman's bane. A witless worm he was called, before he met his bitter end. Yet, there is a story behind those few sentences. A dark story, yes, but one that still aches to be told…

In a time of heroes, a time where legends and stories came to life and long forgotten prophecies were to be fulfilled, there lived a man who did not believe in hope, who did not strive for glory. A man of skill and wits, he used his words to persuade the world around him to become slightly more to his liking. He took pride in his abilities, and rightfully so, for he was both bold and cunning. But he had come to believe that he alone could see things others could not, and in time his pride made him cold and aloof. While it was true that he could often see straight to the heart of things that others thought complicated or clouded, he forgot that others might in turn see things that he himself could not. He also forgot that he was not the only one with a talent for seeing things for what they truly were. In time, he would remember, but by then it would already be too late.

As he slowly detached himself from his kin, thinking that he was superior to their simple lives and worries, they in turn separated themselves from him. The man did not quite see that though simple they may be, they did not lack depth nor intelligence of their own. And while he came to despise them for their unsophisticated ways, they in turn came to view his intricate manners with increasing suspicion. One who sets himself aside from everything around him soon finds himself quite alone, and this man was no exception.

The turns of his life eventually led him to a noble position serving at the court of his land, a position where his wit and talent was greatly appreciated and his manners were often forgiven. The King was respectable and well educated, and the man, now made Counsellor, held him highly in regards, at first.

To learn new lessons when one is already well into adulthood, content and set in one's ways, is hard. No less so for the Counsellor who was about to be taught anew that others did indeed see things that he could not make out, and that they might have strengths he'd never dreamed of. It dawned on him slowly. Two children came to court, relatives of the King, orphaned by a war that had gone on for far too long. Endearing they were, bright and laughing once the memories that had scarred them began to fade deep into the back of their minds. Children must heal quickly in order to survive. An adorable girl and her brother no less so, a handsome young man in the making.

The first lesson to be learned was of envy. The Counsellor had not known true envy for a long time, if ever. He had always found ways to acquire the things he desired, be it through coin, persuasion or downright lies. He only stopped short of stealth because he had found he didn't need to, often the coin would be enough and if not: there were _oh_ , so many ways to persuade. But this time was different. He had grown comfortable at court, found a routine to follow and convenient strings to pull whenever needed. The King would heed his advice more often than not, and matters could almost always be arranged so that orders were carried out to the Counsellor's liking, never quite contradicting the King's but not always exactly in the way the ruler might have intended. Life had become, yes, _easy_. And now it was not. Children play, and run and scratch their knees, but they also watch and listen, and learn. Above all that, children always ask questions, and there had been no children in court for many years, no one to question the routines or the old ways. To say "it has always been so" bears no meaning to a child; sometimes, what was always so needs to change. This is how kingdoms survive, they evolve under the questioning eyes of their children.

It was not the questions themselves that were reason to envy. No, it was the attention they got, the thought put into every query or suggestion made by that bright eyed pair. No longer had the King got ears only for his most clever servant, his attention must also be shared by twittering birds in the gardens and small hands pulling him down dusty corridors to venture bravely into half-forgotten storerooms and discover anew trinkets stored away long ago. The King would send his most trusted away to make time for some small talk with the children, fondly looking down into their big, serious eyes as they told him of the day's adventure, the night's dream or their hopes for the future. The Counsellor watched, and felt envy. The feeling crawled deep within him, and at first he could not recognize it for what it was. To see the three of them, heads close together, one stained with gray and the others still golden, whispering secrets or softly humming some old tune to which none of them could rightly remember the words; it made the man itch inside.

He was held high in regards by his King, yes, but never was he asked about his dreams, his past, his visions more than in light conversation, soon forgotten. Never was he included in childish embraces or invited to treasure hunts behind the stables. He told himself that he'd never want to anyway. Him, a noble man! The mere idea! None the less, the man who had chosen to stand apart from others was, at last, beginning to feel lonely. As his King took the children to his heart, the Counsellor stood aside and wished, for the first time, to belong. But how could he? He, who had prided himself in not needing anybody, would not know how to begin. Small trinkets, stories told and some education, this he could offer. All he proposed was received with polite thanks from the children, or the King, when it came to the education. But a teacher is not family, and the man was not let in as far as he had hoped. The children understood each other as only those who've grown up together can, instinctively reading one another, always knowing or understanding what the other needed or wanted. That one person could understand the other so well, the man had never realized till now, and he wanted badly to be a part of it but found that he could not. And as envy bloomed in his heart, he tried the only way he knew how to quell it: by tearing apart what he himself could never have, by planting distrust between the brother and sister. Such is the nature of envy: the man thought that if he could not have it, then they too must be undeserving. So he set to work with taking their trust in each other away from them. Sometimes he would be successful, managing to place a wedge between them, whispering rumours and lies to make them wary of each other. But sometimes he was not. And as he was truly not understanding the nature of trust, of love and the worth of family. It took long before he became aware that the wedges were sometimes pushed out after he was gone, that small cracks would be healed or plastered over, that voices which had cried out in anger could just as soon turn soft again, explaining and soothing. The brother and sister grew wary of each other, yes, but they grew even more wary of the man who was trying to force them apart because he could not have what they had. As time went by, the bitterer became his lies, whispered clandestinely in darkness. As woodworm in rot wood will gnaw away on the inside till naught is left and the tree will fall apart on its own accord, so were the Counsellor's words gnawing on them. And on the King, once they tried to turn to him; he would not believe such things of his most trusted servant, and failed to recognise the man's subtle hand in such wry chords as now rang within his court and family.

Alike as the two siblings might have been, they were yet different. Both were kind, both well mannered, but the would-be-princess held steel in her soul; a cold determination to get her what she needed, while her brother held fire; a sparkling, everlasting source of energy. He was the one more likely to speak before thinking, she more likely to brood on words flown out too hasty, and to contemplate their meaning. These character traits were both good and bad and would have brought them joy and sadness alike, had they been left alone. The Counsellor, however, had learned to target such traits, seeing them as weaknesses that he might use to his liking. To make a young man speak out in anger is not hard, especially if he's hot-headed. That a young woman should dwell on such heated words would follow without further urging. So easily done, so hardly undone.

Trying to find strength from each other, the young sister and brother came up with a nasty nickname: Wormtongue, they would call him, for his tongue is forked and his words will gnaw and gnaw and gnaw away at us if we let them. Better not to let them, better not to trust a word he says. They took comfort in each other, and they shut the man out.

And the man, the Wormtongue, would moan and curse and spit into the darkness because in his efforts to belong he had ended up lonelier than before. The envy curled itself around his heart, blackened it, bore a hole into his soul and left him with no way to fill it other than to double his efforts in tearing at what others had, thinking it would bring him satisfaction. If he could not have it, neither should they. And it did bring satisfaction, after a fashion. But it left a bitter taste, and the hole within him would keep on tugging.

As the brother and sister grew older, a new bitter lesson was to be learned by the man now known to them as Wormtongue. The brother took to the sword and became a rider proud, tall and strong and good-humoured. The sister also learned to wield the sword, as was the custom in their land, but her duties lay not with the riders but with the affairs of the kingdom. The King had a grown up son, destined to take the crown after him, and the young brother was to be schooled as Marshal, a captain, while the sister was thought of as wife of a regent to be, which meant she was taught script and figures, names and customs of other lands, practising to write introduction letters for emissaries with all the correct greetings for trade, and a thousand other tasks that she could not bear to remember. Too many. She had not wished for it at all, thought her brother's task the longer straw. How could it not be? Grab your sword, stick the pointy end into the enemy. There. Simple. She had never wished for anything more. But the King had great hopes for her, for both of them. A Marshal, he thought, was a job best suited for a man. And even if it was not so: school two new captains, and end up with nothing when they both fall in battle. Nay, the King had other plans.

So the sister sighed, and set to work, often tutored by the Counsellor she did not yet openly call Wormtongue. He was well suited for the job, knew what she would need to learn and the means by which she would. Ledgers and scrolls were produced, figures explaining different routes of commerce, what to trade and to whom, what might work and what might not. As the brother and sister would spend more time apart, what with their different tasks and schooling, so the man called Wormtongue would lessen his attempts at turning them against one another, thinking it no longer needed. All by himself, one on one, he could be pleasant, charming even if in a good mood. But the sister remembered well his little seeds of discord and she never fully relaxed in his presence. With a sigh, she would dip her quill in her inkpot and set to work on the proper way to address a regent if one hoped to trade within said regent's lands.

The girl grew to become a young woman, and a beautiful one at that. And the man she would not openly call Wormtongue, not yet, felt the hole in his soul start throbbing as in pain whenever he set eyes on her. When he finally put a name to the sensation, he called it love. She was beautiful, and he wanted to own her, to consume her, to keep her and to never let her out less she be touched by another man's gaze. He called it love, but the second lesson to be taught was that of lust, for he lusted after the now young woman such as he had never lusted for wealth, nor intelligence, nor anything ever before. And in his heart stirred the old wish of belonging. His loneliness called out from within and he thought that if only he could have her, if only she would have him; she would look into his eyes and she would love him. And she alone would fill up that hole in his soul with her love, and he would become whole and never lonely again.

The young would-be-princess bore steel in her soul, a cold sharp blade covered with thin layers of silk. Not always visible, but always there, always handy for her to bring out whenever needed. The Wormtongue, however, could be said to bear water in his soul, and water runs as water will, always finding cracks where it might slip in to form dark pools and lie waiting. Dark thoughts may breed in such pools, and water is oh, so difficult to scope out or to take hold on, ever slipping away. Drop by drop, water may taint even the sharpest steel with specks of rust. Her brother would boil the water away with his anger, would he ever find such pools in his mind. He would boil them to the last drop. But water boiled has a habit of turning to steam, and steam, when cooled down, will yet again be drops of water, slowly slipping down the walls of mind to make new pools. The sister found another weapon and took to the coldness of her mind to freeze the water that was placed in there by the Wormtongue. Freeze it to ice, till it lay unmoving, never to slip deeper into the cracks of her mind. But then again, water frozen has a habit of expanding, and sometimes a frozen pool would force itself to inhabiting a yet larger space in her mind, spreading its chill deeper into her soul. And so, the young girl grew up a fair maiden, but there was to be a coldness about her, and the many layers of silk surrounding the steel in her soul would get worn thin, till only a few remained. Fair but cold, she earned a reputation and was sometimes called Ice Maiden. Still kind and loved by her people, but all the more unattainable, all the more unreachable and too often lost in contemplation. And as the slight frame of childhood was replaced by the willowy shape of a young woman, ever increased the Wormtongue's lust for her.

Had he known lust before? Most certainly, he was only human, a mortal man with the urges and needs of one such. But never to this extent, and it scared him slightly that he would feel such passion for this young would-be-princess that it at times would cloud his better judgement and make him act in ways unexpected, allowing himself strange follies such as he had never succumbed to before. He tried to win her trust, shadowed her steps to be close to her, and he obsessed over her until the mere idea of her with someone else made him grit his teeth in wrath and jealousy. And yes, there was always the envy, underneath it all, envy to feel such closeness as the brother and sister would enjoy, jealousy that they would have that while he was left out. He again increased his efforts to pry them apart, planting new seeds of discord between them. And whenever the sister would turn from her brother in anger or tears, the Wormtongue would be there waiting, offering words of consolation, being to her as kind as he knew how. She would abide his company then, but only for a while. The strong love shared between her and her brother would always bring them back together, once again reminding one another that the Wormtongue's whispers were poisonous, reassuring each other that they would be forever watchful, to mind their steps around the Counsellor who wished to pry them apart.

And as the Wormtongue once more saw his efforts ruined, he would slip again into the shadows, gritting his teeth while forming yet a new plan to get the young sister to himself. He lusted after her and he named the sensation love, thinking his desires were as pure as the feeling he'd often heard of in songs and poems. But love is to be a giving and taking based on trust. True love is generous, and can be shared by two or many. Love is grander than lust, which is often one sided, while love is forever giving and taking. Sometimes just a little, sometimes overflowing, as if to make up for time lost. Love is warm, and big, and strong, love will make the hearts on those as let it in grow large enough that they may embrace even others. Such as family, such as children to come. True love is forever growing and embracing, but the man called Wormtongue saw the beauty and grace of the young woman who would one day be a princess, and he wanted it all to himself. He wanted to take everything that was she and stuff it into that dark hole in his soul so that she would be forever his and that he would be whole. He wanted to take and to have, but had no thought of giving back. Such is not the nature of love, but the man did not understand because he had failed the lesson and he did not know love at all.


	2. Falling under the shadow

Part II

Falling under the shadow

Out in the world, great armies were gathering like clouds in the sky, awaiting the oncoming storm. A war such as the world had not seen in more than an age, legends come to life and sometimes nightmares, too. The war had not yet reached its boiling point, but skirmishes were blossoming, painting the ground red with blood in many lands, and such events sent ripples even through places distant from violence. Soldiers were to train harder, supplies to be accounted for more closely. Dark creatures roamed the borders of many a land, even the one where lived the man called Wormtongue. Knowing those creatures to be the same ones that had killed and ravished the village of his young protégés, the King went to muster his forces. He impressed on his son the Prince and on his young, fiery Marshal the importance of standing strong and united. He told the young princess-to-be the significance of keeping a cool head and a sharp eye for anything amiss in the land, and that she who had trained in the affairs of his kingdom was to be second in line to inherit the throne, should things go amiss. It was never the King's intention that she should wear the heavy crown of a troubled kingdom, merely a precaution since he as King must stand ready to rally, and since his son, second in command, must stand beside him. Such was his duty. The young woman knew this must be, she bowed her head in acceptance and readied herself to shoulder the responsibility, should it ever come to that. She had steel in her soul as well as in her hands and she stood ready, a Princess at last.

The man who was not yet openly known as Wormtongue had busy, yet delightful days, guiding the now Princess in her daily duties as he had suitable experience and vast knowledge. Though every man in the kingdom was expected to stand ready to wield sword or bow, were it needed, the man's duties had never allowed him much spare time to practice such things, and he never thought it likely he'd have to take sword in hand for his King. There were other men for that, and the Wormtongue thought himself far too important. With most of the kingdom's affairs in hand, he assumed the role of concerned advisor, thinking to himself that he'd always stand next to the Princess, to rule with her when all other men had fallen to the darkness surrounding them.

And surround them it did. The Wormtongue knew it first of all, gathering information from couriers sent all across the land. He learned of skirmishes with dark creatures and attacks on grain supplies, of villages burned, its inhabitants never to be seen again. He learned, and he was troubled. A life at court does not remain easy and comfortable when darkness encircles you. So he went to his ruler the King and he urged him to send the orders and the emissaries necessary, asking for aid, negotiating old terms and forming new alliances. Or resuming old ones. Not far to the west, beyond the forests and right beside the great river lay a mighty tower where resided a powerful wizard, wise and stern. Ever before had he offered aid and advice to those in need, and now that the need of the land was dire, the King remembered the treaties of old and sent word to the Wizard. Words of uttermost importance sent the King, the message carried by none other than his most trusted servant, the Counsellor who would soon be openly known as Wormtongue, though he wasn't, not yet.

And so the Wormtongue rode to the Wizard, and the Wizard read the letters and listened to the words sent by the King. And he listened also to the words the Counsellor himself had thought to add, words that never quite contradicted the King's, though they weren't exactly the same, either. And as the Wizard listened to the Wormtongue, he looked into his mind and soul and he saw the man's loneliness, and he listened to his voice and heard in it the old traces of envy. And the Wizard saw that the Counsellor was full of pride, and full of himself, so sure of his own importance. And the Wizard could hear in the man's voice the slight contempt for others that the Wormtongue could never quite conceal.

The Wizard heard and saw, and he mused to himself that what he saw was interesting, that a man so full of greed could be useful. Since the Counsellor had long since forgotten that others might be just as clever as he, if not more so, that others might see straight to the heart of things just as well as he, if not better, and that others might see things that even he could not, he never stopped to think that he himself might ever be pushed or used, that someone could pull on his strings just as well as he pulled the strings of others. And so the next lesson to be taught was of pride and of greed. The Wormtongue thought he knew the might and the wit of the Wizard. He considered himself a respectable man and he believed that the Wizard recognized his worth and thought of him as an equal. He was so full of pride, he never stopped to think that the Wizard might consider him but a tool, use him as means to an end and dispose of him once he was used up. What the Counsellor did not know, and was never told, was that corruption had long since soiled the mind of the once great Wizard, known as the White, and that he had leagued himself with the forces of darkness. No, the Counsellor was not to know this, not yet. The Wizard had looked into his soul and seen his envy and his pride. Oh yes, and the Wizard had seen the Wormtongue's lust and had thought out just how to use him. The White Wizard fed the Counsellor's ego with flattery, and fed him information that suited his own intentions. The lesson was of pride, but the man was not to learn its bitter aftertaste until much, much later. And by then, it would be far too late.

In due time, it was hinted to the Counsellor that the shadow was too dark, the darkness too deep to fight. It was suggested that maybe, just maybe a kingdom could be spared, was it to surrender to the shadow and willingly let the darkness in. It would be regrettable, yes, but necessary, that such a kingdom bent knee and welcomed the dark forces, that it would aid the shadow. Only then could a small part of it hope to remain. Naturally, the White Wizard let on, if a kingdom was to survive it must shield itself off from fools that might yet try to fend of the shadow. If a kingdom was to survive it would have to turn its back on former allies and trust mainly itself. Of course, such a kingdom would always get aid and advice from the White Wizard, support enough that the darkness would never engulf it completely. Some lucky few were to be left, those clever enough not to argue with the dark forces would be allowed to run their kingdom in peace. It was hinted that a man of wit could very well be the ruler best suited for one such kingdom, and it was strongly suggested that there should be a Lady of royal blood by his side. To ensure the kingdom's survival, understood, as legacy must be handed down to legitimate heirs with the skill and knowledge necessary, royal heirs who would appreciate the importance of aiding the overwhelming shadow less it swallow them all.

The Wormtongue nodded agreement as these hints were let on, and they were let on slowly, ever so slowly over the years. He could see for himself how the darkness crept ever closer, he understood well that the kingdom (and he had begun to regard it as _his_ kingdom) would soon be overrun if no action was taken. If not the right actions were taken. Yes, sacrifices would have to be made. It was deeply regrettable, but yes, necessary. The Counsellor nodded in agreement, that he understood. And the seeds planted by the Wizard grew within him, ensuring him that his actions were the right ones, that he did only what was needed to ensure survival of those chosen few. Chosen, it was understood, by the Counsellor himself, as he was no doubt best suited for such choosing. In his pride and greed, the man became a willing tool of the now corrupt Wizard, and he used his talents of persuasion and lies in the White Wizard's service. And as a Princess and a Marshal watched him with growing wariness, their private nickname for the man slipped out and was spread, until it was commonly known and whispered around the court. First in secret, in due time openly. The man who had gone to aid a corrupt Wizard and chosen to take his advice, the man who had sold his kingdom to the shadow, thinking it might quell the loneliness in his soul, came to be openly known as Wormtongue. He hissed and spat at the name, but it clung to him like weeds and it would not rub off.

Out in the world the war against darkness raged on, everyday forcing itself closer in on the borders of the free lands. Shadow was closing in all over the known world. A lesson of gluttony was to be had. The Counsellor with the forked tongue gathered information for a livelihood now, passing it on as he saw fit to his ruler the King, to his new master the Wizard or to different recipients scattered all across the kingdom. Sometimes he passed news and rumours on without comment, but more often than not he would meddle with the intelligence, disrupt messages or change them completely. Sometimes, he would not pass them on at all, claiming any such information had never come to him, did not exist. Like a spider in a web, he'd pull at different strings, winding in juicy bits of information. Some to be consumed, others to be saved for later, or relocated to new places in the web. And like a spider, safe in his hidden away web, he grew fat with information as he fed on it until he thought he knew everything worthwhile in the kingdom and elsewhere. Inevitably, as he learned more of what the people thought, he came to know more of what they thought about _him_. That they openly disliked him by now, and just how much. What they thought about his evident obsession with the Princess. What some of them would like to do to him, should they ever get the chance to. Sink cold steel into his body, pull a snare around his pale neck till it broke, cut off his forked tongue so that it could whisper no more lies. Those who voiced such opinions openly, he had to dispose of. Of course. As for those who merely suggested, he would have to bide his time. But as waiting grew long, the Wormtongue was himself poisoned by too much information, too much knowledge and he began to see treason in every corner. He would become careless and sometimes act upon such treason too hastily, with less concealment than he would otherwise have bothered to use. Too much enlightenment made the Counsellor tipsy with knowledge and fed an ever growing paranoia. With a drunken determination, he started to check of a list of enemies, real and imagined both, far too soon, endangering his mission to keep the kingdom safe for himself.

The King fell under the shadow, with a little help from his most trusted but no longer loyal servant. The King had not understood the urgent need to keep the land out of the shadow, no matter the cost. The King believed in honour, and glory, and truth. The Counsellor known as Wormtongue thought honour and glory both unimportant, while he regarded truth as a handy thing, to be used, shared or withheld as he pleased. But the King was the ruler, and a strong one at that. He could not possibly be disposed of so easily, but must be kept close at hand. For now. The White Wizard offered his aid, and so the King's strength and mind came to wither until he was but a shell, a puppet to be used as the Wormtongue saw fit. Or as the Wizard saw fit. Nobody knew it for sure, but it was he who pulled the strings of the kingdom now, more often than not. It is said: You should not bite off more than you can chew. But had the Wormtongue, in his greed, not done precisely that? He thought he knew it all, but for all the strings he pulled, he was still leashed by the White Wizard, doing the Wizard's bidding. A fat spider he was become, but his web of lies could only hold so much weight and it was threatening to burst.

Ah yes, the King was well in hand, and with him, so was the kingdom. To have one's goal so closely at hand may cause the best among us to let our guard down, to become a bit too relaxed in performing our duties, sure that nothing will change from one day to the next, confident our position holds strong. A lesson of sloth was approaching.

It had started out according to plan. The Counsellor had seen a need to dispose of the Prince. He was the first heir, which was inconvenient. Much better, thought the Wormtongue, to have the Princess take over the crown once it was obvious to all that the King could no longer hold the position as ruler. Which would very soon happen. All according to plan. The Prince, however, was an obstacle. He did not hold the Counsellor in as high regard as had the King, and was therefore not as susceptible. To set to work on him in the same way as he had managed the King was out of the question. No, the Prince would have to go. It was easily arranged; a timely attack on the Prince's scouting party with a selected target. One obstacle less to worry about. Only, the attack was not as neat nor as swift as the Counsellor had imagined it would be. Evidence was brought back, such proof of the White Wizard's hand as the Counsellor known as Wormtongue had not really wanted to admit knowledge about, even to himself. A helmet from the dark creatures called Orcs, bearing the Wizard's sign. And the Wormtongue was openly known to have dealings with the Wizard. Over confident, he had never thought that anyone could find actual proof of his treason, that anyone might challenge him on the facts he named true or those he deemed as lies. That the Wizard would openly ally himself with the dark creatures, he had not expected. And now that he had hard proof, he must deny it, whisk it away, make it not to exist. But the damage was already done, and wary eyes of a brother and sister, a Marshal and a Princess, bore into him, heavy with distrust. The Marshal's fiery temper, at least, brought the Wormtongue some respite. To threaten the King's most trusted (if yet not most loyal) servant in the Golden Hall called for immediate action, even if the King himself was dreaming away on his throne, unaware of the events around him.

A kingdom needs a ruler, and a ruler needs a captain. The Wormtongue had not thought it necessary to have the young hot-headed Marshal executed, but settled instead for exile. The bond shared between the brother and sister was undeniable, as much as he envied it he had to acknowledge this. And if the Counsellor wished to win the good grace of the Princess, ordering the death of her beloved brother was not a wise move. Exile it was, then. And yet, if it was required, if the young Marshal proved to be too stubborn and managed to round up a good rebellion… his death on the plains could always be arranged, thought the Wormtongue.

When disaster came, although it was regarded as salvation by all other than the Counsellor, he did not anticipate it. So confident was he, so wound up in his own schemes and plots, that he never could have dreamed up such events as were to occur. Guards not heeding his order well enough, for one. The Wormtongue had not counted on such disobedience. Another wizard, even more powerful than the one the Wormtongue had pledged himself to, for another. To have the King break free of the bonds placed on him by White Wizard and Counsellor both; that was most unexpected. Not to mention frightening. The Wormtongue quivered, tried to run but he was caught, and held, and brought to face his King. The man looked into the face of the King and knew that it was his King no longer, knew that he was a trusted servant no more. The former Counsellor trembled as the King's wrath hit him, and the impact of the lesson of sloth was known to him there and then; never rest to confident, less you become careless.

It would be tempting to tell a story about a man who had by now learned all from his mistakes and who was eager to repent. For the sake of a man who is no longer a trusted servant, a counsellor or even a friend, it would be merciful. But history knows naught of mercy, or it doesn't care. The man turned Counsellor turned traitor, the man who set himself apart and longed to belong, the man known for his forked tongue and for his treachery as Wormtongue had one lesson yet to be taught. Pride, he had always had, beneath all else. Pride to make him stand straight when giving orders that weren't exactly coming from his King, pride enough to blind him of some of his own shortcomings. Pride enough to spawn wrath, as he saw all of his hard work come undone, all of his plans ruined. Wrath at the newcomers, who had brought it all down, wrath at his King, who had not understood nor listened, wrath at the Princess, who watched him now as if he was a maggot, a look of contempt and distaste on her face. She, who would have been one of his chosen ones! She, who would have ruled at his side! The Wormtongue felt wrath, even underneath the fear he felt as he cowered at the feet of his King, waiting for him to strike his sword down and have it over with. Yet, as he lay there grinding his teeth, a stranger, a ranger, stepped forward to offer him mercy, stepped forward to offer his hand. Pride spawns wrath, and wrath made the Wormtongue spit at the hand offered, wrath made him storm out of the kingdom he had come to regard as _his_ , when given a chance. Wrath made him seal his own fate.

Lust, wrath and envy, gluttony, sloth and greed, even pride, the ever present. Of all these, the man, no longer Counsellor, had been offered lessons. Not all of those lessons did he learn. Some he did, but by the time he finally fully understood them, it was by far too late. He ran from his kingdom to the stronghold of Orthanc, home of the Wizard he'd come to serve, only to find it ruined. Only to find that the Wizard had sent troops to destroy the kingdom of Rohan, to destroy everything and everyone he'd come to think of as _his_ , all he had ever hoped to possess. He was facing the destruction of everything he believed himself to love, even though his love was a dark and twisted one, better described as lust and greed. That kingdom would be no longer, the Wizard said, that people will be no more. And it wasn't till then the impact of some of those lessons began to dawn upon the Wormtongue. It wasn't until then that he began to understand. And as he did, he wept. But it was too late now, for tears or regret. It was too late, and his wrath at this would have him commit yet one more crime before he was forever put to rest.

In an age far ago, in a land far away, a man sold his soul for a cause he thought worthwhile. His fate is told in no more than a few sentences. His motives are recalled by none. All that remains is his name, and hardly even that.

What's in a name? Wormtongue. The man who speaks with a forked tongue. Words that gnaw away like woodworm. As all other memories are lost, that name is remembered. Of who he was, what his dreams were, we know naught. Only this: that he was a man turned traitor. Did he show remorse then, in the end? Did he truly regret his ways? We can never really know. All that is left now is the name: Gríma Wormtongue. The man whose words were poison.

 _The end_


End file.
